


Watching Paint Dry

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: Youtube RPF, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, Gunge, Multi, WAM, paint play, wet and messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7130444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were pretty lucky, getting the bottles of tempera paint from the Day Care that was closing down nearby. Mark wants to have a go with it (& you.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching Paint Dry

**Author's Note:**

> Only do this with classroom paint, folks. Otherwise it will itch like hell.

"What's with all the paint?" Mark leans on the doorway, poking his head into the big, empty room. 

"The daycare center was closing down, and they had a bunch of tempera paint that was going to waste." You lean back from pouring it on the plate, looking down thoughtfully at the large spread of paper in front of you. "I was thinking I'd try some for the banner we're making for Jack's birthday, since we're gonna be having the party." 

"That was nice of you," says Mark, coming into the room (which is covered in canvas drop cloths). "But why cover the whole floor?" 

"You never know what's gonna happen," you say, still concentrating on painting the sign. You hear him walk over to you, but you're more engrossed in the painting than anything else. It's not only something cold and wet strokes the top of your foot that you squeak, looking up.

Mark is holding a paintbrush, looking like trouble. The paintbrush has blue paint on it. As does the top of your foot. 

"Marrrrk," you say, deliberately drawing out the word in the way you know gets on his nerves. "What'd you do that for?"

"You looked so serious. I couldn't resist." He puts on a guileless expression, grinning at you with all of his teeth.

"Oh yeah?" You dab your brush in the paper plate with red tempera paint, making as if to color in the branch of the "p." At the very last moment, you put the paint on his cheek, a nice big swatch of it. 

"Hey!" Mark jabs his paintbrush into the plate filled with blue tempera paint, and paints a streak of it down your arm. "Don't start something you don't wanna finish!"

"Oh, I'll finish it alright!" You're grinning now, getting up on your knees. Quick as a thought, you dart forward, leaving a streak of red across his neck, down onto his shirt. 

"Wait, hold on." He holds both hands up, a sign for peace. "No getting clothes dirty." He pulls the shirt over his head, and you admire the expanse of his bare chest as he tosses the shirt out the door. 

"Why do you get to make the rules?" You at least seize the opportunity while you have it - you draw another line, right over his right nipple. He makes an amusing noise - the paint is _cold_. 

"Because," Mark says, and he looks you up and down, not even bothering to conceal his letching. "So you should take your shirt off." 

"Or what?" You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at him. You want to know where this is going. 

"Or I may do... this!" He (somehow) manages to tackle you, knocking you backwards into one of the plates of paint. You land on it right in the middle of your back, and you yelp. 

"Mark! You got it all over my shirt!" You prod him in the side, trying to get him off of you. He doesn't budge, his knees pinning your thighs open, his elbows on either side of your ribs. 

"I did suggest you take it off," he says, waggling his eyebrows. He begins to pull your shirt up, over your belly, and you squeal. 

"Gaaaaaaaah! What are you doing?!" You're wriggling and shrieking as he leans forward, and blow a raspberry. You're flailing around enough that you stick your hand in the plate of yellow paint, dripping it down your arm. 

"Revenge," Mark cackles, and gropes around for another paintbrush. Finding none, he sticks his hand into the same plate you just did. "Now... look at all this empty skin. What should I draw? How about a happy little sun?" He draws a rough circle, right over your navel, and you shriek like a cat with its tail in a door. 

"You are not Bob Ross," you squall, trying to unseat him. Although that ends up pressing your crotch against his lower belly, and that's... quite interesting. You're pretty sure he's got a bit of an erection as well. 

"I could be," he says. The paint is slick, although it's beginning to dry in certain spots. He's adding little lines around the circle, to make it a proper "sun." 

"I think your subscribers would be disappointed if you suddenly started painting, instead of shouting at animatronics," you say, trying not to wriggle against him too much. Yeah, that's definitely an erection. 

"You never know," he says, sitting up. "Maybe they're getting bored of hearing me shouting all the time. Some of them seem to like when I talk quietly.” He's adding random lines to your belly, and you trying not to squirm too much – the paint is cold and your belly is ticklish. “and don't say it like that. It makes it sound like I'm going into a Chuck E Cheese and yelling at the animatronics.” 

"Does Chuck E Cheese even have animatronics anymore?" You reach around behind you, groping along the floor for a plate. Your hand connects with someone cold and slightly slimy, and you grin. 

"I don't know. I've avoided walking by them since I started to play the Freddy games." Mark is finger painting along your ribs, drawing lines down your sides. It's devilishly ticklish. 

"Wuss," you say affectionately, and you put your (blue paint covered) hand right on his head. The paint pastes his hair to the top of his head, and he squawks. 

"What was that for?" He grabs your leg through your jeans, leaving a big yellow hand print on your thigh. 

"Because I could," you tell him, grinning like a cat. Your grin changes to a yowl when he grabs the whole plate of red paint and smushes it onto your stomach, smearing his happy little sun, and making a lovely shade of orange. 

"Why aren't there any secondary colors?" Mark admires the color on your stomach, rubbing it in. You're glad that this is paint intended for nursery school students, or else you might end up a bit Oompa-Loompa-esque. 

"Probably because they wanted the kids to mix them themselves. Or maybe I just got there late." You try to pull him on top of you, gripping him under the arms. His armpits are going to get matted with paint. Petty revenge, but at least it'll get washed out once he steps under the shower. 

Mark lets himself be dragged, smearing paint across his chest. You can feel his chest hair leaving little tracks through the orangeness. He kisses you, belly to belly, his sticky hands going to the back of your head. He pulls you closer, kissing harder, and thank gods, at least he doesn't taste like paint. He tastes like himself, and a bit like a breath mint, which implies that he had ulterior motives, but who cares, because he's warm and heavy and solid on top of you, even if the paint is starting to dry. 

"You got it in my hair," you say to him, prodding him in the hand with one sticky hand. 

"Pot, meet kettle," he says, getting off of you. You feel a pang at the loss of the heavy pressure, but less of a pang as he begins to pull his pants off, taking his boxers with him. Yes, he's got an erection. You'd be a bit insulted if he didn't truth be told. But it still makes your own arousal wake up, swelling between your legs and beginning to drip. "Now. Are you gonna take your clothes off, or am I gonna be doing it for you?" He waggles his eyebrows at you, and you burst out laughing, sitting up on your elbows. 

You're going to have to do the laundry. Ah well. At least you put all the drop cloth down. 

"You do know that this means war?" You wriggle out of your clothes in record time. The paint drying on your skin makes it feel crunchy, itchy. When you shift position, a few flakes of it drop down. Oh, the joy of cheap tempera paint. 

"What are you talking about?" Mark is still standing there naked, looking quite appealing, if a bit like he's posing. Without warning, you grab the plate of red and shove it onto his lower stomach, right above his pubic hair.

"Oh fuck that is _cold_ ," Mark groans, curling up a bit. He grabs the opened jug of blue paint, and unceremoniously dumps the whole lot of it onto your head, making your hair stick to your skin. 

The cold paint cascades down around you, slithering down your back, along the cleft of your ass, down between your nipples. It's on your face as well, and you keep your eyes shut to keep any paint on them. You also curve around your genitals, because you do _not_ want paint on those. It spreads across your legs and the sides of your feet, where you're sitting cross legged. You carefully wipe your face off and blink up at him. 

"Hey!" You stand up, a bit unsteadily, and more paint drips down the backs of your thighs, tickling the backs of your knees. You grope around, finding the white paint, and throw it at Mark, less of a dumping, more of a tossing. 

Mark laughs, and pulls you close, his hands on your hips, slipping in the wet paint. He kisses you, and the paint on your belly rubs against the paint of his, slipping and sliding. You have your eyes half closed, since paint is still dripping into your face, but you keep kissing him, your paint covered hands on his ass, squeezing hard. 

“Fuck,” Mark groans. “I need... I want to be in you, fuck,” he mumbles, blinking at you through his paint splattered glasses.

“Please,” you beg, about to reach down to grab his cock. Then you remember that your hands are covered in paint. “But, um... could you wipe your hands off first?”

He nuzzles into your neck, getting more paint on you. You wish he would bite you, but tempera paint isn't exactly tasty. “I'd have to let go of you to do that,” he mumbles, keeping his face in your neck, no doubt getting more paint on his face. You can't really complain, because it feels amazing, the contrast of his hot breath and the cold paint. 

“I don't want to have paint in places that are hard to reach,” you mumble, grabbing the back of his head and pressing his face more into your neck. His glasses are biting into your skin, and his dick is smearing pre-cum and paint along your belly. “I can get an infection.” 

“Gimme a sec,” Mark mumbles, letting go of you. His cock stands proud in front of him, while he digs through your jeans (much to your annoyance – you're gonna have to really wash them). 

“Is that necessary?” You watch, your hands on your sticky hips, for lack of anything else to do with them. 

“Do you want me to stick my dick in you covered in paint?” He pulls a bunch of napkins out of your back pocket, carefully, and wipes his hands off. Then he wipes his dick off, wincing. It must be rough. 

“Well, no,” you say, your eyes on his hands. 

“But you do want me to stick my dick in you, right?” He sits on the drop cloth, looking at you thoughtfully. 

You sit on a clean piece of drop cloth, looking back. “Yes, I'd like that,” you say, attempting to wear a sexy look. It probably doesn't work that well, because you're not real made for sexy looks. 

“Get on all fours,” he says, his voice going deeper. You fancy you see a glint of something hungry in the back of his eyes. Well, hungrier. He's been eyeing between your legs, stealing furtive glances at your very obvious arousal. 

You do as instructed, swallowing thickly. There is paint under your belly, and its cold, but Mark is sliding into you – somewhat uncomfortably, without lube, but you've taken him like this before, and he's providing of natural lubrication. Or maybe you are? Who even knows. He eases his cock in slowly, carefully, mumbling bits of obscenities as he does so, half words and pleas. 

He's deep, and the paint on his belly sticks to your back, sliding back and forth slightly as he begins to thrust. His hands are around your belly, and you're gonna have a pair of white hand prints on your belly, to go with the by now destroyed happy little sun. His cock his so deep, it feels so good, your own arousal drooling wetness onto the drop cloth, mixing with even more paint. You loll your head back and moan, deep in the back of your throat, and he moans back, vibrating through your back to your chest, burrowing between the knobs of your spine.

“Fuck,” Mark mumbles, and he keeps thrusting, faster now, fast enough that it would hurt if you weren't flying such a high, because the contrast of the cold, slippery paint and the hot, solid body are almost too much, filling up your senses. The paint smells like construction paper, a childhood smell that sends a weird tinge through the proceedings, but it is doing something to you. Your arousal is thick and heavy, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. His cock is thick and heavy as well, filling you up, and you moan, gasping, whimpering. Fuck indeed.

“Are you gonna cum?” Your belly is sliding back and forth – your whole self is sliding back and forth, the paint slippery, but beginning to dry into papery flakes. 

“Yes, please, can I cum in you, please, please, fuck....” He's begging, his voice breaking, his hips working frantically. You have a feeling that it's a close race to keep him from cumming in you in the first place. 

“Alright,” you say, pressing yourself back against him and shifting your legs to fall open more. It's not like you have to worry about getting pregnant. 

Mark makes a deep, guttural noise as he cums, buried as deep as he can be. You're going to have cum dripping down your leg when you stand up, mixed with your own arousal. You wish you could cum – that would make this properly romantic and whatnot. But you aren't touching your delicate bits with your hands covered in paint. Because no. 

“Fuck,” Mark mumbles, pressing his face into your back. Then he swears, because he's gotten paint on his glasses. You don't need to see it to know it. You snicker. 

“My knees are gonna give out if you don't get off,” you tell Mark, shifting your weight until you're lying flat on your stomach. He's still inside of you, still half hard. 

“But it's so comfy in here,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling into your back, no doubt getting more painty. 

You sigh, a full body sigh, relaxing as much as you can on the hard floor. It feels nice to have him on your back, a comforting pressure. 

“Shit.” You groan, pressing your face into your crossed arms, and getting more paint on your forehead. 

“What's up?” Mark shifts inside of you, but doesn't move otherwise. It's kinda sexy, and kinda weird at the same time. 

“We're gonna have to do the banner over again, for Jack.” You attempt to look at him over your shoulder, but only manage to dislodge him. He slides off of you, landing in a plate of paint on his ass. 

“Cold!” He jerks upright, then sits back down resignedly. He seems to have given in to the cold and the slimy. “and it's not a problem. We've got a whole roll of butcher paper.” 

“Fair enough,” you say. “But before anything else, I want to shower.”

It's Mark's turn to swear. “Fuck. Another problem.” 

“Hm?” You stand up, wincing as cum and paint drip down your legs. You're still so, so horny – throbbing and hard and hot – but you can deal with that later. “Gods, I need a shower.” 

“Therein lies our other problem,” Mark says, looking at his feet. They're as messy as the rest of him. “How do we get to the bathroom.” 

The bathroom. Which is two flights of stairs up. 

“We're fucked,” you say conversationally, willing the paint to dry faster.

“No, just you,” Mark says, and swats at your ass playfully. 

You groan, prodding him in the side, and stretch. The dried paint on you cracks, and you sigh, sitting back down on one of the last clean patches. “Well, I suppose you could work on this,” you say, indicating between your legs. “But you'd have to use your mouth.”

“I would, would I?” Mark's expression gets hungry as he belly crawls between your legs, and you sigh, then moan, as you feel the first stroke of his tongue. At least watching this paint dry will be more enjoyable than usual.


End file.
